Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
...and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us...
—The Lord’s Prayer
’Bout time.
It took me a while to finish Linda Ty-Casper’s Awaiting Trespass—not because it wasn’t engaging, but because my computer programming projects kept getting more complex by the day. Ask any C programmer about strings, pointers, and arrays of pointers and you’ll understand the kind of mental contortions I’ve been through.
But I’ve finally reached the end of this remarkable novel, and I can say this with certainty: Ty-Casper writes for the serious reader. Her tone is calm, her prose polished and deliberate. There's a subdued religiosity in the work, yet it's tempered by a liberal sensibility. While reading, I imagined the narrator as one of those proper, well-mannered aunties who could casually drop savage truths over afternoon tea—without ever raising her voice.
The novel is richly layered—filled with money, memory, political commentary, and family anecdotes. Given my age, I can relate to the temporal and cultural context. I also understand why this book wasn’t published during the Marcos years: it’s a quiet yet potent articulation of anti-dictatorship sentiment.
My advice to readers: read it in one sitting. Don’t break it up like I did. This is a stream-of-consciousness novel. The story isn’t driven by plot twists or high drama but by introspection and philosophical reflection.
Ty-Casper begins with a simple but haunting question:
“But how did he die? In whose house? With whom?... And why will he hide from us? At this important time when we come to say goodbye to him! A sealed casket! Something is not right, besides the suddenness.”
And just like that, we’re pulled into the Gil family’s quiet storm of questions, reflections, and reckonings during the Marcos era.
To call this novel “tame” compared to the raw rage of activist literature written today would be to miss the point. For its time, Awaiting Trespass was brave, even risky. Ty-Casper wasn’t writing from the vantage point of a working-class protagonist or the usual activist perspective. No, she dared to write about political savagery from within the silk-curtained world of the upper class—and did it with grace. As one review aptly put it, she writes with "silk gloves." I wholeheartedly agree.
That’s the beauty of Linda Ty-Casper’s prose: she cultivates a quiet garden in the middle of a junkyard. Her work reminds me of Cecilia Manguerra-Brainard—fluent, elegant, and seamlessly interconnected. You can’t just stop reading midway and expect to pick up later; the flow is too precise. Ty-Casper clearly didn’t write this novel with MTV-attention-span readers like me in mind.
But let me give you a quick overview. The story revolves around a wake for Don Severino Gil, whose body arrives in a sealed casket, sparking suspicions and speculations. Why was it sealed? What are they trying to hide? The narrative unfolds through the reflections of family members who gather, each carrying with them layers of memory, trauma, politics, and personal regrets. The novel weaves together reflections on beauty, class, religion, society, military history, foreign exploitation, environmental degradation, and yes—more politics.
I won’t spoil the ending, but I will say this: the religious, philosophical, and emotional undercurrents build into something quietly painful and profound.
I pulled out some excerpts that really struck me—not to give away the plot, but to preserve these lines for myself. These are lines that echo the reality my generation lived through. If you grew up in the Philippines during the '70s and went to college in the '80s, you’ll feel it too:
“A friend mailed her Camels straight from New York to be certain of freshness and because blue seals could be faked...”
“She is about to live in her thoughts again, thirteen floors above the sea while on the dance floors behind the glass doors, retired generals are swinging old bodies to young beats; this one ordered the Metrocom to sweep students off the streets around Mendiola in '71... Where is the one who held Tirad Pass against American sharpshooters?”
“If the administrators of martial law were really concerned about the country they would not have allowed the Kawasaki sintering plant... But we hold life cheaply here. Pesticides, herbicides, tainted milk—anything unsafe in the world finds its way to the Philippines.”
“And I might as well say... if we do not stop selling our trees to Japan, we will be importing lumber by the year 2000.”
“I live in San Juan. In January of '73 our neighborhood was called to a meeting... The next day, there I was in the newspaper with my arm raised. The caption said, the new Constitution has been overwhelmingly approved...”
“The arrogance of the President in assuming powers he gives to himself makes it possible for tyranny to seep down... So many little dictators all over the country, clones of the one in Malacañang...”
These lines are not just quotes—they’re echoes from a past we once lived through. For those of us who spent our youth whispering about revolution and dictatorship, Awaiting Trespass reawakens a long-muted voice. I remember how hopeless things once felt. We thought there was no other way out of that regime but armed resistance. And yet, from that hopelessness emerged People Power.
I believe that’s what the protagonist Telly—Don Severino’s 49-year-old niece—is trying to say. She’s a divorcee, a poet, and a deeply thoughtful woman. She processes her grief, surroundings, and memories with an intensity that is both restrained and inspiring. Ty-Casper’s Telly is the antithesis of hysterics: convent-bred, dignified, reflective.
That, I think, is what sets Ty-Casper apart from the loud, dramatic divas of Philippine literature (myself included—I do like a good curse now and then).
From the book cover:
A wake in Manila for the aging playboy Don Severino Gil is the setting for social satire and personal awakening. The gathering family speculate about the reasons why Don Severino's coffin is sealed. Was it to protect his privacy? To show contempt for the society that indulged him? Did he want to conceal a mutilation, or is he still alive, in hiding?
Speculation soon turns toward the Pope’s upcoming visit to the Philippines. Severino’s sisters compete for visibility while planning to repaint the house in the Pope’s colors. The wake becomes a stage for deeper reflection by two isolated individuals: Telly, the sensitive poet who battles despair, and Sevi, a middle-aged priest struggling to discern his calling.
This book isn’t just a story—it’s a time capsule. It’s a poetic mirror held up to a nation grappling with silence, repression, and the aching desire for truth.
Read it not just with your eyes, but with your memory.
2025-05-29 17:36:15
bookreviews
Chapter 5
ST. AUGUSTINE’S FOLLOW-UP
“But someone will ask, ‘How are the dead raised? With what kind of body will they come?’ You fool! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies.”
—1 Corinthians 15:35–36
After recounting his story, Lazaro fell silent. He was embarrassed, confused by how much he had revealed—secrets he would never normally confess to a stranger. Yet somehow, this house had drawn it out of him. There was something in the air, in the walls—something that cultivated a deep melancholy he had long kept under control.
And Jeff—he had changed too. Since they entered this house, Jeff had become inquisitive, assertive, even domineering. A stark contrast from the gentle man Lazaro met on the seashore. It was as if some unseen force had laid their hearts bare, playing the cards for them both. Now, drained and wordless, they sat staring at the garden in silence.
At last, Lazaro glanced at his watch and stood up.
"I'm going home," he said. "Call me if you need anything."
Jeff smiled—and for a fleeting second, Lazaro glimpsed the man Jeff might have been before AIDS. He had once been incredibly handsome.
"Thank you for listening," Jeff said as he walked Lazaro to the door. "And for sharing, too. I’m glad to hear about your mission. I may not fully agree with its grandiosity—but I respect it, for whatever it’s worth."
Lazaro tried to respond but found himself voiceless. A vision overtook him: Jeff and his dead lover. Their final days—no hysteria, no screams, just quiet acceptance. The dying comforting the living. Jeff had survived. And he was smiling.
Lazaro waved goodbye and returned to the beach where they first met. Though it was nearing morning, the shore remained cloaked in darkness. A tide of confusion surged in his chest. As he walked, old suspicions returned—love, anger, fear, mystery... Dade Rest. Was his mind playing tricks? Was Jeff real? Were the stories of murder, magic gardens, underground tunnels, and crematoriums fragments of imagination?
Then, he remembered Dodong. He hadn’t thought of him in years. The loss of their friendship hit hard, and tears welled in his eyes.
He heard footsteps.
Startled, he turned.
A dark figure emerged from the reeds.
He knew the silhouette.
St. Augustine.
"Are you chickening out?" the Saint asked, his tone mocking.
"I'm not," Lazaro lied.
"Liar."
"But, my Saint... how should I react to what I’ve just seen? I'm not part of Jeff's world. I have the right to say no. Don’t I? I mean... free will is a gift from God. Am I truly my brother’s keeper?"
He hesitated. "Besides... I sensed another presence in that house. A dark one. It was powerful—like the Devil himself."
"Keep babbling," Augustine sneered. "Talk your way out of this mission."
Suddenly, Lazaro began to choke. He couldn’t breathe. He grabbed the Saint’s habit, gasping, "Saint... Augus—"
He vomited.
An egg.
St. Augustine folded his arms. "Being a chicken, you’re entitled to lay an egg. But beware—if you keep this up, the roosters will come. And you know what they do to hens."
"Saint Augustine!" Lazaro shouted, crushing the egg underfoot. "What good could I possibly offer them?"
"Oh, shut up. One minute you’re proclaiming your life’s mission to Jeff Koplaski, the next you’re quaking like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Make up your mind."
Then, sternly: "Let me ask you one thing—what can a nurse like you do for People With AIDS?"
Lazaro was silent.
"What’s the worst that could happen if you serve at Dade Rest?"
"I could get the virus... I could be murdered... I could die."
"And if you die?"
"I... I would..."
At that moment, it struck Lazaro: he was speaking to a dead saint. A dead saint who had just made him vomit an egg.
St. Augustine didn’t wait. "Let’s end this pointless talk. Work awaits. Follow me."
He picked up his staff and strode ahead. The Miami breeze whipped through his long gray beard and rough woolen robe. Lazaro pinched himself repeatedly. Awake. Not dreaming. He followed.
"Saint Augustine!" he called. "Why did God send AIDS to mankind?"
The Saint stopped. Turned. Struck him with his staff.
"Blasphemer!"
"Aray ku po!" Lazaro cried. "Saint! You’re becoming violent!"
"You offend with your question. Do not say that God gave this suffering to man. Man brought it upon himself. Look around. What do you see?"
"Condos, cafes, bars, parking lots, the ocean. I hear disco music."
"God-made or man-made?"
"Man-made, but... the materials come from God."
"Exactly. Man was given dominion, and look what he did. This is why there is so much suffering, Lazaro. See what they’ve done to the earth, the elements, even the organisms within."
He led Lazaro to the water. "Scoop it up."
Lazaro obeyed.
"Now drink it."
He grimaced. "I can’t. It’s dirty."
"Why?"
"Pollution. Waste. People swim here—you don’t know what they carry."
Augustine shook his head in mockery. "Excuses. When God created the sea, there was only one reason man couldn't drink from it."
"And what’s that?"
"Because he’s not a fish! You fool!"
He pulled Lazaro away. "We don’t have time to waste."
"Why?"
"Don’t make me regret your return to life. Weren’t you searching for the Ten Holy Men? What are you waiting for?"
THE SAINTS COME MARCHING IN
Reluctance
(excerpt by Robert Frost)
...The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'
After the vision of St. Augustine vanished, Lazaro drove home, disturbed. His mind brimmed with questions. Was he losing touch with reality? Hallucinating? Sleepwalking? To vomit an egg and be struck by a saint’s staff—not once but twice—was decidedly not normal.
He finally managed two hours of sleep and went to work at Universal Nursing Home.
Later that evening, back home, he checked his answering machine—no messages from Dade Rest. Not yet.
He played his favorite CD—Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. As Kiri Te Kanawa’s voice filled the room with "Spura sul mare," Lazaro melted into the sofa, overwhelmed by the beauty of music.
Staring at the imitation paintings on his wall—Degas’ Blue Dancer, Renoir’s Dance in the City—his thoughts wandered to Butterfly, then to Miss Saigon. Tragic heroines. Sacrificial love. Love that defied reason. Would he ever know such love?
Opera after opera passed—Aida, Turandot, Tosca—and with each aria, Lazaro felt a greater ache. He had never truly been in love. Not that kind. Not madly, passionately, irrevocably.
He forgot dinner. The beauty of music had made him forget hunger.
Later, he read Frost and Whitman. But Frost stirred a restlessness in him. He blamed Butterfly, blamed Saigon, blamed his lonely heart. He felt the love he longed for turning into a desperate rebellion.
He went out.
Ocean Drive was full of lovers. Lazaro was envious. He suddenly had a wild thought—maybe his visions were the product of repressed longing. Maybe he just needed love.
So he drove to Warsaw, a prominent gay bar. For one night, he would not be alone.
Inside, dancers strutted. Someone tapped his shoulder. A stripper whispered, “I haven’t seen you in a while.” Lazaro didn’t believe him.
"What’s your name?"
"Michael." The man rubbed against Lazaro.
"How long have you danced here?"
Michael backed off. "You a cop?"
"No." Lazaro smiled.
The stripper drifted away.
A man sat beside him. "I’m from Cuba. You’re... Japan? Mexico?"
"Guess again."
"Philippines?"
"Yes!"
They laughed. Lazaro talked about colonial history—he was excited. But midway, the Cuban yawned.
"Am I boring you?"
The man nodded. They both laughed.
Then the Cuban said bluntly: “I’ve never made love to a Filipino... Your chest is great... Your skin is smooth... How big are you?”
Lazaro was gutted. He had wanted love—not this. He had hoped for art, history, conversation, connection. Not this.
“Your place or mine?”
Lazaro bowed his head. He couldn’t go through with it.
All around him: strippers, lust, ritualized exchanges. Yet inside, he burned with rebellion. He wanted to scream: Stop this. Let’s fall in love. Where did love go?
He stared at a candle. A vision came: the Cuban man, years later, aged and lonely. Another stripper fell in love, changed his life, became a lawyer, adopted children, and became an activist. Another never changed—and died tragically.
“I have to go,” Lazaro said.
“The night is young,” the Cuban smiled.
“I need sleep.”
“You snooze, you lose.”
Lazaro wondered: Who really lost tonight?
2025-05-22 04:25:05
visions
Linda Ty-Casper: Awaiting Trespass
...and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us...
—The Lord’s Prayer
’Bout time.
It took me a while to finish Linda Ty-Casper’s Awaiting Trespass—not because it wasn’t engaging, but because my computer programming projects kept getting more complex by the day. Ask any C programmer about strings, pointers, and arrays of pointers and you’ll understand the kind of mental contortions I’ve been through.
But I’ve finally reached the end of this remarkable novel, and I can say this with certainty: Ty-Casper writes for the serious reader. Her tone is calm, her prose polished and deliberate. There's a subdued religiosity in the work, yet it's tempered by a liberal sensibility. While reading, I imagined the narrator as one of those proper, well-mannered aunties who could casually drop savage truths over afternoon tea—without ever raising her voice.
The novel is richly layered—filled with money, memory, political commentary, and family anecdotes. Given my age, I can relate to the temporal and cultural context. I also understand why this book wasn’t published during the Marcos years: it’s a quiet yet potent articulation of anti-dictatorship sentiment.
My advice to readers: read it in one sitting. Don’t break it up like I did. This is a stream-of-consciousness novel. The story isn’t driven by plot twists or high drama but by introspection and philosophical reflection.
Ty-Casper begins with a simple but haunting question:
“But how did he die? In whose house? With whom?... And why will he hide from us? At this important time when we come to say goodbye to him! A sealed casket! Something is not right, besides the suddenness.”
And just like that, we’re pulled into the Gil family’s quiet storm of questions, reflections, and reckonings during the Marcos era.
To call this novel “tame” compared to the raw rage of activist literature written today would be to miss the point. For its time, Awaiting Trespass was brave, even risky. Ty-Casper wasn’t writing from the vantage point of a working-class protagonist or the usual activist perspective. No, she dared to write about political savagery from within the silk-curtained world of the upper class—and did it with grace. As one review aptly put it, she writes with "silk gloves." I wholeheartedly agree.
That’s the beauty of Linda Ty-Casper’s prose: she cultivates a quiet garden in the middle of a junkyard. Her work reminds me of Cecilia Manguerra-Brainard—fluent, elegant, and seamlessly interconnected. You can’t just stop reading midway and expect to pick up later; the flow is too precise. Ty-Casper clearly didn’t write this novel with MTV-attention-span readers like me in mind.
But let me give you a quick overview. The story revolves around a wake for Don Severino Gil, whose body arrives in a sealed casket, sparking suspicions and speculations. Why was it sealed? What are they trying to hide? The narrative unfolds through the reflections of family members who gather, each carrying with them layers of memory, trauma, politics, and personal regrets. The novel weaves together reflections on beauty, class, religion, society, military history, foreign exploitation, environmental degradation, and yes—more politics.
I won’t spoil the ending, but I will say this: the religious, philosophical, and emotional undercurrents build into something quietly painful and profound.
I pulled out some excerpts that really struck me—not to give away the plot, but to preserve these lines for myself. These are lines that echo the reality my generation lived through. If you grew up in the Philippines during the '70s and went to college in the '80s, you’ll feel it too:
“A friend mailed her Camels straight from New York to be certain of freshness and because blue seals could be faked...”
“She is about to live in her thoughts again, thirteen floors above the sea while on the dance floors behind the glass doors, retired generals are swinging old bodies to young beats; this one ordered the Metrocom to sweep students off the streets around Mendiola in '71... Where is the one who held Tirad Pass against American sharpshooters?”
“If the administrators of martial law were really concerned about the country they would not have allowed the Kawasaki sintering plant... But we hold life cheaply here. Pesticides, herbicides, tainted milk—anything unsafe in the world finds its way to the Philippines.”
“And I might as well say... if we do not stop selling our trees to Japan, we will be importing lumber by the year 2000.”
“I live in San Juan. In January of '73 our neighborhood was called to a meeting... The next day, there I was in the newspaper with my arm raised. The caption said, the new Constitution has been overwhelmingly approved...”
“The arrogance of the President in assuming powers he gives to himself makes it possible for tyranny to seep down... So many little dictators all over the country, clones of the one in Malacañang...”
These lines are not just quotes—they’re echoes from a past we once lived through. For those of us who spent our youth whispering about revolution and dictatorship, Awaiting Trespass reawakens a long-muted voice. I remember how hopeless things once felt. We thought there was no other way out of that regime but armed resistance. And yet, from that hopelessness emerged People Power.
I believe that’s what the protagonist Telly—Don Severino’s 49-year-old niece—is trying to say. She’s a divorcee, a poet, and a deeply thoughtful woman. She processes her grief, surroundings, and memories with an intensity that is both restrained and inspiring. Ty-Casper’s Telly is the antithesis of hysterics: convent-bred, dignified, reflective.
That, I think, is what sets Ty-Casper apart from the loud, dramatic divas of Philippine literature (myself included—I do like a good curse now and then).
From the book cover:
A wake in Manila for the aging playboy Don Severino Gil is the setting for social satire and personal awakening. The gathering family speculate about the reasons why Don Severino's coffin is sealed. Was it to protect his privacy? To show contempt for the society that indulged him? Did he want to conceal a mutilation, or is he still alive, in hiding?
Speculation soon turns toward the Pope’s upcoming visit to the Philippines. Severino’s sisters compete for visibility while planning to repaint the house in the Pope’s colors. The wake becomes a stage for deeper reflection by two isolated individuals: Telly, the sensitive poet who battles despair, and Sevi, a middle-aged priest struggling to discern his calling.
This book isn’t just a story—it’s a time capsule. It’s a poetic mirror held up to a nation grappling with silence, repression, and the aching desire for truth.
Read it not just with your eyes, but with your memory.
2025-05-29 17:36:15
bookreviews
Visions of St Lazarus 5
Chapter 5
ST. AUGUSTINE’S FOLLOW-UP
“But someone will ask, ‘How are the dead raised? With what kind of body will they come?’ You fool! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies.”
—1 Corinthians 15:35–36
After recounting his story, Lazaro fell silent. He was embarrassed, confused by how much he had revealed—secrets he would never normally confess to a stranger. Yet somehow, this house had drawn it out of him. There was something in the air, in the walls—something that cultivated a deep melancholy he had long kept under control.
And Jeff—he had changed too. Since they entered this house, Jeff had become inquisitive, assertive, even domineering. A stark contrast from the gentle man Lazaro met on the seashore. It was as if some unseen force had laid their hearts bare, playing the cards for them both. Now, drained and wordless, they sat staring at the garden in silence.
At last, Lazaro glanced at his watch and stood up.
"I'm going home," he said. "Call me if you need anything."
Jeff smiled—and for a fleeting second, Lazaro glimpsed the man Jeff might have been before AIDS. He had once been incredibly handsome.
"Thank you for listening," Jeff said as he walked Lazaro to the door. "And for sharing, too. I’m glad to hear about your mission. I may not fully agree with its grandiosity—but I respect it, for whatever it’s worth."
Lazaro tried to respond but found himself voiceless. A vision overtook him: Jeff and his dead lover. Their final days—no hysteria, no screams, just quiet acceptance. The dying comforting the living. Jeff had survived. And he was smiling.
Lazaro waved goodbye and returned to the beach where they first met. Though it was nearing morning, the shore remained cloaked in darkness. A tide of confusion surged in his chest. As he walked, old suspicions returned—love, anger, fear, mystery... Dade Rest. Was his mind playing tricks? Was Jeff real? Were the stories of murder, magic gardens, underground tunnels, and crematoriums fragments of imagination?
Then, he remembered Dodong. He hadn’t thought of him in years. The loss of their friendship hit hard, and tears welled in his eyes.
He heard footsteps.
Startled, he turned.
A dark figure emerged from the reeds.
He knew the silhouette.
St. Augustine.
"Are you chickening out?" the Saint asked, his tone mocking.
"I'm not," Lazaro lied.
"Liar."
"But, my Saint... how should I react to what I’ve just seen? I'm not part of Jeff's world. I have the right to say no. Don’t I? I mean... free will is a gift from God. Am I truly my brother’s keeper?"
He hesitated. "Besides... I sensed another presence in that house. A dark one. It was powerful—like the Devil himself."
"Keep babbling," Augustine sneered. "Talk your way out of this mission."
Suddenly, Lazaro began to choke. He couldn’t breathe. He grabbed the Saint’s habit, gasping, "Saint... Augus—"
He vomited.
An egg.
St. Augustine folded his arms. "Being a chicken, you’re entitled to lay an egg. But beware—if you keep this up, the roosters will come. And you know what they do to hens."
"Saint Augustine!" Lazaro shouted, crushing the egg underfoot. "What good could I possibly offer them?"
"Oh, shut up. One minute you’re proclaiming your life’s mission to Jeff Koplaski, the next you’re quaking like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Make up your mind."
Then, sternly: "Let me ask you one thing—what can a nurse like you do for People With AIDS?"
Lazaro was silent.
"What’s the worst that could happen if you serve at Dade Rest?"
"I could get the virus... I could be murdered... I could die."
"And if you die?"
"I... I would..."
At that moment, it struck Lazaro: he was speaking to a dead saint. A dead saint who had just made him vomit an egg.
St. Augustine didn’t wait. "Let’s end this pointless talk. Work awaits. Follow me."
He picked up his staff and strode ahead. The Miami breeze whipped through his long gray beard and rough woolen robe. Lazaro pinched himself repeatedly. Awake. Not dreaming. He followed.
"Saint Augustine!" he called. "Why did God send AIDS to mankind?"
The Saint stopped. Turned. Struck him with his staff.
"Blasphemer!"
"Aray ku po!" Lazaro cried. "Saint! You’re becoming violent!"
"You offend with your question. Do not say that God gave this suffering to man. Man brought it upon himself. Look around. What do you see?"
"Condos, cafes, bars, parking lots, the ocean. I hear disco music."
"God-made or man-made?"
"Man-made, but... the materials come from God."
"Exactly. Man was given dominion, and look what he did. This is why there is so much suffering, Lazaro. See what they’ve done to the earth, the elements, even the organisms within."
He led Lazaro to the water. "Scoop it up."
Lazaro obeyed.
"Now drink it."
He grimaced. "I can’t. It’s dirty."
"Why?"
"Pollution. Waste. People swim here—you don’t know what they carry."
Augustine shook his head in mockery. "Excuses. When God created the sea, there was only one reason man couldn't drink from it."
"And what’s that?"
"Because he’s not a fish! You fool!"
He pulled Lazaro away. "We don’t have time to waste."
"Why?"
"Don’t make me regret your return to life. Weren’t you searching for the Ten Holy Men? What are you waiting for?"
THE SAINTS COME MARCHING IN
Reluctance
(excerpt by Robert Frost)
...The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'
After the vision of St. Augustine vanished, Lazaro drove home, disturbed. His mind brimmed with questions. Was he losing touch with reality? Hallucinating? Sleepwalking? To vomit an egg and be struck by a saint’s staff—not once but twice—was decidedly not normal.
He finally managed two hours of sleep and went to work at Universal Nursing Home.
Later that evening, back home, he checked his answering machine—no messages from Dade Rest. Not yet.
He played his favorite CD—Puccini’s Madame Butterfly. As Kiri Te Kanawa’s voice filled the room with "Spura sul mare," Lazaro melted into the sofa, overwhelmed by the beauty of music.
Staring at the imitation paintings on his wall—Degas’ Blue Dancer, Renoir’s Dance in the City—his thoughts wandered to Butterfly, then to Miss Saigon. Tragic heroines. Sacrificial love. Love that defied reason. Would he ever know such love?
Opera after opera passed—Aida, Turandot, Tosca—and with each aria, Lazaro felt a greater ache. He had never truly been in love. Not that kind. Not madly, passionately, irrevocably.
He forgot dinner. The beauty of music had made him forget hunger.
Later, he read Frost and Whitman. But Frost stirred a restlessness in him. He blamed Butterfly, blamed Saigon, blamed his lonely heart. He felt the love he longed for turning into a desperate rebellion.
He went out.
Ocean Drive was full of lovers. Lazaro was envious. He suddenly had a wild thought—maybe his visions were the product of repressed longing. Maybe he just needed love.
So he drove to Warsaw, a prominent gay bar. For one night, he would not be alone.
Inside, dancers strutted. Someone tapped his shoulder. A stripper whispered, “I haven’t seen you in a while.” Lazaro didn’t believe him.
"What’s your name?"
"Michael." The man rubbed against Lazaro.
"How long have you danced here?"
Michael backed off. "You a cop?"
"No." Lazaro smiled.
The stripper drifted away.
A man sat beside him. "I’m from Cuba. You’re... Japan? Mexico?"
"Guess again."
"Philippines?"
"Yes!"
They laughed. Lazaro talked about colonial history—he was excited. But midway, the Cuban yawned.
"Am I boring you?"
The man nodded. They both laughed.
Then the Cuban said bluntly: “I’ve never made love to a Filipino... Your chest is great... Your skin is smooth... How big are you?”
Lazaro was gutted. He had wanted love—not this. He had hoped for art, history, conversation, connection. Not this.
“Your place or mine?”
Lazaro bowed his head. He couldn’t go through with it.
All around him: strippers, lust, ritualized exchanges. Yet inside, he burned with rebellion. He wanted to scream: Stop this. Let’s fall in love. Where did love go?
He stared at a candle. A vision came: the Cuban man, years later, aged and lonely. Another stripper fell in love, changed his life, became a lawyer, adopted children, and became an activist. Another never changed—and died tragically.
“I have to go,” Lazaro said.
“The night is young,” the Cuban smiled.
“I need sleep.”
“You snooze, you lose.”
Lazaro wondered: Who really lost tonight?
2025-05-22 04:25:05
visions